Deep Pain, The Driving Force for 2025
A year ago, I lost my first cousin. Not to an illness. Not to an accident. But to silence.
Paa Sammy died young—far too young. He carried wounds no one could see, and burdens he didn’t know how to share. His pain was personal, relational wound of betrayals, and buried so deep that even those closest to him couldn’t reach it. He was ashamed. He was afraid. He was alone. And by the time we realised how much he was hurting, it was too late.
His death didn’t just break my heart—it awakened something in me. A haunting ache for what could have been healed, if only he had felt safe enough to speak. If only someone had listened sooner. If only we had known.
In the wake of that loss, I made a vow: to turn my pain into purpose. I dedicated this year to exploring the silent wars we fight within ourselves and with each other—those quiet, often invisible battles that shape us, isolate us, and sometimes destroy us. I began to share stories—raw, real, and vulnerable—carefully veiled to protect identities, but honest enough to resonate.
And then something unexpected happened.
People began to reach out. They saw themselves in those stories. They spoke of how their pain had been dismissed, minimised, or even weaponised—especially by the very people and faith communities they turned to for refuge. Some were guilt-tripped. Others were silenced. Many were simply ignored. They asked me to share their stories too—not for attention, but in the hope that someone, somewhere, might find a lifeline in their truth.
Each story became a thread in a larger tapestry of shared humanity. Yes, the themes repeated—because pain echoes. Betrayal multiplies. Loneliness lingers. But I honoured every voice, because every voice matters. Every story matters. Every person matters.
And I realised something else: I couldn’t help others heal if I wasn’t healing too. So I turned inward. I faced my own wounds. I grew. I learned. And I began to offer the lessons I gathered along the way—not as a saviour, but as a fellow traveller.
This journey has humbled me deeply. It has taught me that silence can be deadly, but storytelling can be redemptive. That shame thrives in isolation, but loses its grip when met with empathy. That healing begins the moment we feel seen, heard, and safe.
The year is drawing to a close, but the stories haven’t stopped. A few more will still be shared. And maybe, just maybe, one of them will sound like yours.
So I ask you: What’s your story?
Give it a voice.
Let it breathe.
You are not alone in this struggle toward a peaceful, authentic self.
Faith communities—and society at large—should be sanctuaries for the brokenhearted. Those who step into the sacred role of counselor, mentor, or mediator must lead with integrity, humility, and compassion. They must never allow personal biases, unresolved wounds, or favoritism to cloud their judgment. When people come to us in pain, we must not add to their burden. We must be safe places, not stumbling blocks.
To those who cause pain without realizing the ripple effects…
To those who rewrite the story to make themselves the victim…
To those who want a deep connection but avoid the work it requires…
Please remember:
You’re not interacting with robots or shadows.
You’re engaging with human beings—fragile, feeling, and worthy of respect.
And if you keep ignoring that truth, life has a way of teaching it back to you—
Sometimes gently, sometimes not.
This reflection is for Paa Sammy—for the words he never got to say, for the help he never received, for the love he didn’t know how to ask for.
And it’s for everyone still holding their pain in secret.
May we learn to listen more deeply.
To speak more bravely.
To hold space for each other’s stories—before they become eulogies.
❤️ In loving memory of Samuel Sarkodie Kobiah. You are not forgotten. Your silence has become our call to speak. ❤️
💕And to Josephine Nana Adwoa Asmah, though gone too soon a year ago, your legacy still lives on💞
